Infinite Variety
by StrangeBlaze
Summary: Miscellaneous drabbles and oneshots based in the Sherlock Holmes universe. Mostly Trated but I cannot promise that there sometimes won't be some M in there. I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety. EMPT
1. Cleaning Up

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters; I'm just borrowing.

Fandom: Sherlock Holmes

Character/Pairing: Mrs. Hudson

Title: "Cleaning Up"

Rating: G

Author's Note: directly after Reichenbach.

The only thing she knew to do was clean.

She opened the door and saw the books on the floor, the papers strewn across the desk—smelled that nasty snuff he insisted on smoking. His violin sat on the sideboard. To think, she had actually chided him for waking her up in the night playing it.

The magnifying glass undid her. She cradled it to her chest, holding back the sobs that threatened. A noise startled her. She looked up to see the Doctor in the doorway, the light gone from his eyes. She knew it had also left her own.


	2. Dirty Laundry

Fandom: Sherlock Holmes

Characters/Pairing: Mrs. Hudson and Holmes

Title: "Dirty Laundry"

Rating: G

Note: This is another challenge from LiveJournal. The challenge was "Sherlock Holmes and socks". This one made 200 words, so we'll call it a "double-drabble".

"MRS. HUDSON!" Mr. Holmes' voice thundered down the steps one winter morning at an ungodly hour.

That good woman was entirely used to her lodger's moodiness and occasional rudeness. In all their years of cohabitation, he had alternately abused, coddled, bribed, and just generally annoyed her, but he always did it with some modicum of affection.

Thus she crawled out of her warm bed, into the freezing air, and trudged her way up to his rooms from the kitchen while it was still dark, to see just what it was that had him so upset. She opened the door to see him sitting on the divan, entirely dressed but for his hairy bare feet, smoking a cigarette and looking somewhat bemused.

"I am out of clean socks," he informed her.

She smiled sweetly and looked him in the eye. "Then perhaps you had better go and wash some," she said. She turned slowly and walked out of the room, back downstairs to bed. For a moment it was silent, then she heard him laugh uproariously and come down the stairs. When she awoke, a basket was sitting outside her door. It was full of clean clothes. They were all hers.


	3. Goodbye, My Friend

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.

Fandom/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes: John Watson

Watson at Reichenbach. Written on the 12th anniversary of Jeremy Brett's death. Sorry it's so depressing. :(

"Goodbye, My Friend"

I run as fast as I can back to the Falls. The note is a fake, sent by his enemy to distract me. I am sure of that now. I can only hope that I am not too late.

The only sound when I return is the roar of the water. There is no sign of my dearest friend or his adversary. Surely there must be something. _Think, Watson_, I tell myself. _Use his methods_.

I feel panic rising in my chest as I call his name. There is no answer. My eyes dart over the scene, desperate for any clue. _There._ Footprints near the edge. _Oh, God._

I will not give in to despair. Perhaps he merely pushed that vile man over the precipice. He is, after all, skilled in boxing and those wrestling moves I cannot pronounce. I begin to search the area, wishing in vain for a glass like my friend always carries.

I turn, and almost stumble across something. It is his alpine-stock, propped against a boulder. Sitting upon the boulder, something shiny catches my eye. It is his silver cigarette case. I pick it up, ignoring my shaking hands. A paper flutters to the ground. My stomach drops into my knees as I slowly pick it up.

"_My dear Watson…"_

_No._

For a quick, childish moment, I imagine that if I do not read the note it will not be true. It _cannot _be true. Of course that is preposterous. I sit, for a very long time, watching the Falls, listening to their steady pour. I mentally will him to appear, silently beg him to materialize in front of me. Of course it does not happen, and I begin to grow cold sitting there.

Finally I read the note, his words to me. His _last _words. People thought him cold, distant, but he took the time to write these words to me, to comfort me, because he knew. He knew how I would react, and what it would do to me. The truest and dearest friend I have ever known is lost to me, for all time. But he took the time to say goodbye.

So I shall do the same.

I stand, staring at the Falls, for another long moment. I feel numb, unable to comprehend what has happened. But I know that he is gone, and I shall miss him. I know that, unabashedly, I loved him.

"Goodbye, my dear friend," I say. I turn around and leave that accursed place, knowing a great part of my heart has gone along with Sherlock Holmes into the deep abyss of Reichenbach Falls, as well.


	4. Sweet Music

Disclaimer--not mine, yadda yadda.

Another story written for an LJ prompt--"Mrs. Hudson and music"

"Sweet Music"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Mr. Holmes said, as his landlady handed him his gloves. He put them on and placed his top hat upon his head, as he turned to face her, in the doorway of the flat they had shared for so many years.

"Wait one moment, please," Mrs. Hudson said.

He turned to her, puzzled. She reached her short arms up and adjusted his bow tie, which had come askew from beneath his collar. He waved her hands away.

"I shall be extremely late, so there is no need for supper," he said, tersely.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson replied, calmly. She was not surprised. Ever since Dr. Watson had married and moved out of the house, Mr. Holmes was seldom around for dinner.

She tried not to let it upset her. He was looking rather unhealthy lately, even more so than usual. His cheeks were sunken from lost weight, his face pale, and though he still shaved daily, stubble dotted his chin. His eyes had lost some of their luster and his step was leaden. Still, she was not his mother, and if he did not want to eat, then there was nothing she could do about it.

After her tenant left, she trudged slowly up the seventeen steps to his sitting room, where a pungent tobacco cloud assaulted her as soon as she opened the door. She repressed a flash of annoyance and walked to the window to let in some fresh, cold air.

The room was a mess. In addition to the smoke and tobacco ashes all over the chairs and floor, nearly everything else was in disarray. It seemed as if Mr. Holmes had engaged in a fight with his bookcase—and the bookcase won, for there were books and papers of various ages and states of disrepair strewn from one end of the room to the other. An ink bottle had overturned on the desk, spilling black fluid all over a group of old photographs. His chemistry set, though clean, was for some odd reason in the middle of the floor.

She was used to this. For years she had cleaned up after him, the worst tenant in London. She did not mind it really—after all, it was her job to do his laundry, cook his meals, and make sure his living space was clean. Mr. Holmes was entirely too busy to be worried about cleaning up after himself, anyway. Yes, she would do it and not complain. She had been cleaning up after men for so many years it had become almost instinctual.

She turned to pick up some papers and nearly stumbled over his violin, which was lying haphazardly on the floor, strings-down. It looked to have been thrown from the divan. Indeed, that was where, after searching for a moment, she found the bow. She picked up the instrument and inspected it, running her hands slowly over the scrapes and nicks in the wooden surface. It did not appear to be too damaged, as far as she could tell. She began to look for the case.

It sat upon the sideboard, propped open on yet another stack of books. She walked over and gently sat the violin inside of it, intending to close it and begin cleaning the rest of the room. Something gave her pause, however, and she took a moment to study it as it lay there inside the case. It was quite beautiful, despite the small injuries to it.

Later she did not know what possessed her, what strange compulsion caused her to pick it up. She had not even touched one for years. Was it a memory of her late husband, who had often asked her to play her "fiddle" back in Scotland when they were young and newly married? Was it a longing for times long gone? Or was it because it was simply there?

In any case, she picked up Mr. Holmes' Stradivarius and began to play, slowly at first, and then more confidently. She played tunelessly at first, and then a song she had not thought of in years—one Thomas had loved to hear her play, and he had loved to sing to her—"Loch Lomond."

She was so absorbed in her playing, so transported by her memories and the music that she did not hear the door open behind her, nor did she hear the soft exclamation when it came. She did hear when a male throat began to hum along to her song, loudly. Startled, she whirled around, nearly dropping the violin in the process, to see Mr. Holmes, standing in the doorway, a curious and bemused look present upon his hawkish features

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. She quickly thrust the Stradivarius into its case and snapped it shut, turning away from her lodger to hide the blush she felt overtaking her cheeks.

"I forgot my wallet," he said quietly.

"Oh! Um, I—it must be here somewhere," she stammered. She swept some of her graying hair out of her face and quickly began to rummage through the wreckage in the room, still not meeting him in the eye.

Mr. Holmes began to look as well, slowly and methodically. For a moment he was even on his hands and knees in front of the fireplace, searching underneath of his favorite chair. At last, Mrs. Hudson finally found it behind a pile of cushions on the floor near the front window.

"I have it, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"Ah! I should have known. I can always depend on you to sort out the small details, Mrs. Hudson."

To her dismay, she blushed again as she walked over and handed the wallet to him. Coming from him, it was quite the compliment.

He looked at her closely. In the quietest, kindest tone she had ever heard him utter, he said, "I did not know you played, Mrs. Hudson."

She smiled. "I have not done so for many years. I apologize for—"

"There is no need to apologize." He waved a hand. "Music is a force that overtakes us. To have such art in the blood…" He was silent a moment, then asked, "Why did you stop playing?"

"As you know, when my husband died I had little money. I sold many of my possessions, including my violin. Even after I took in lodgers and became more secure, I did not have the time—or perhaps the inclination—to start again."

She looked away from him. Though he had resided in her house for several years, and they had many daily conversations, it was seldom that either of them spoke of their personal lives. This was the most she had said about herself to him in years, perhaps ever.

But Mr. Holmes _observed _as well as he saw. He smiled at her, a genuine smile that reached his eyes and took away some of the lines of strain that had been on his face so much lately. "You are quite good," he said.

"Thank you," she replied, smiling back.

There was silence for a moment.

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. "Are you sure you wouldn't like me to pack you a sandwich, Mr. Holmes?"

He cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes. "Per-perhaps you should. I may be gone a long while."

"Then that might be best."

"Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She packed the sandwiches for him, and met him at the door again. He took the parcel from her and tucked it into the side pocket of his coat. He tipped his hat to her again, and made to go out the door.

"Mr. Holmes," she said.

He turned back to her, one eyebrow raised.

She reached her hands out. He stepped forward to allow her to adjust his tie again. She patted it into place, nodding at her handiwork. Mr. Holmes reached his hand up and patted the back of her hand with his gloved fingers, his mouth twitching briefly.

"The small details…" he whispered. "Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good night, Mr. Holmes."


End file.
